Thirty-Nine Point Two
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: In which Sherlock notices that Molly is falling ill with flu. Oneshot.


**Thirty-Nine Point Two**

"Could you wheel him out for me?"

"But, he's on my- oh, alright."

John leaned against the counter, waiting for Sherlock to finish examining the cadaver. It was a ridiculously cold winter day and he would have liked nothing better than to stay at home, but Lestrade had called on a murder that appeared to be connected to one that had occured last week, and Sherlock had jumped at the chance of a potential serial killer.

"Isn't there a rule thing that says you aren't supposed to be at work if you're running a temperature?"

John looked back at Sherlock, wondering (but only vaguely) what he was on about this time.

It was, surprisingly, Molly who answered Sherlock's question.

"Oh! No," she said, "I'm really fine. I'm... I'm just a bit tired."

John looked at the pathologist, frowning slightly as he now noticed the evidence that was standing three feet away from them.

Molly was pale. There were purplish shadows under her eyes, which were red, standing out against her skin. She looked exhausted and even as John looked, Molly procured a tissue from her lab coat to rub her nose.

"Molly?" John asked, frowning. "You're sick?"

Molly's gaze flickered to John, her cheeks tinting with pink. "Uh, w-well, I felt a bit bad last night and I woke up feeling sick, but..."

"Thirty-nine point two," Sherlock muttered.

Molly and John both looked back at Sherlock.

"What?" Molly asked.

"Your fever. It's thirty-nine point two."

John sighed. "Sherlock, you cannot know that."

"I didn't know, I noticed," Sherlock replied, crouching over the cadaver.

"How?" Molly asked, but John tried to cut her off.

"Molly, you really don't want to know-"

"Your skin is flushed. That's usually an indicator of a difference in body temperature, unless you're a naturally pale person like I am. Since you're not, I can infer that you have a fever. Now, as for the exact reading, it's really not difficult. You came into work today; you obviously didn't feel that bad. It started as a low-grade, then. Thirty-eight point three, point five, something in that range. However, while a low-grade fever has its annoyances, you were perfectly fine as you worked over the cadavers. No nausea, good. Moving on. You're sweating now. It's cold here in the morgue so your fever is now high enough to make you sweat in this environment. Your concentration's lacking... even moreso than usual... given the slices across this cadaver's chest. You didn't fight me when I asked you to wheel the body out; you're not feeling up to your usual self. While your clothes and hair say that you were tired this morning, your slouched shoulders and lack of concentration, along with the fact that you aren't trying to keep up appearances around _me_, nonetheless, means that you're now feeling remarkably ill. Remarkably ill means a higher fever; given that you haven't gone home yet means that it's not above forty. So, conclusion, thirty-nine point two."

Sherlock said all of this without once looking up from the cadaver.

"Anyway, John, the new victim isn't connected to the previous one. There were clearly two different people commiting these murders. The blunt force trauma on our previous victim was obviously caused by repeated blows to the back of the head with a shotgun, where it's obvious that the new victim was stunned by a single blow with something much smaller, most likely a ceramic vase or something manageable like an alarm clock, before being shot. Honestly, how does Lestrade think that these are connected? Just because blunt force trauma occured doesn't mean that it was the same murderer. _How_ can he make such stupid mistakes?"

John shook his head slightly as Molly stood, looking perplexed. It seemed like Sherlock was just in one of _those_ moods. Poor Molly was sick and had to listen to him talk, too. John felt bad for her.

"Come on, Sherlock. Let's go home. I'm sure Molly feels miserable enough without having to listen to your deductions."

Sherlock finally looked up, although his gaze was directed at Molly. "You should return to your flat."

"No, I'm really fine..."

"Molly..." Sherlock started, lips twitching towards a frown. "Go home. You're no use to anyone here if you're going to be vomiting all over the specimens."

Molly looked from Sherlock to John. She looked bemused and embarrassed.

John didn't know if he wanted to tell Molly to go home or tell Sherlock to stop embarrassing the poor woman. It was clear that she had a ridiculously unrequited crush on him, and it probably was the last thing that she had wanted to do was see him while she was sick.

But, John _was_ a doctor, and doctoring habits died hard. "Molly, honestly, he's right. You should be at home, in bed, resting. Take the rest of the day off and take some medicine, stay hydrated. You'll be back on your feet in no time, but it'll be worse if you push yourself. I'm sure the hospital can manage without you for a day or two."

Molly sighed. "I know but-"

"You're going to be creating more trouble if you vomit or faint while working," Sherlock added suddenly, looking at some toxicology reports left on the counter.

Molly didn't respond.

"Molly," Sherlock said. He had looked up now. Molly looked back at him. "Go home and rest," he said, catching her gaze and not looking away.

Molly's face turned beet-red before she swallowed and looked away. "Okay... fine... I'll go tell the staff-"

"I'll take care of that," Sherlock interrupted, setting the papers down. "Go home."

"What? Are you sure; I mean, I can manage-"

"Go home, Molly," Sherlock repeated. He already had his mobile out and his eyes locked on the screen. "I'll take care of things here."

"... Okay. Okay. Thank you, I mean... I'm just going to go home," she said, turning away quickly as she shrugged off her lab coat.

"Feel better, Molly," John said, watching her put on her jacket.

"I'll try..." she mumbled.

She gave them a hesitant, sad-looking smile, before she vanished out of the morgue.

John looked at Sherlock. "You're being... nice, considering you don't have a serial killer on your hands."

"She was sick; it was the only logical explanation."

"You wouldn't have gone home if you were sick."

"Yes, but I'm not Molly Hooper." Sherlock looked up from his mobile. "Shall we? It's just past lunch-time and we can stop in at Speedy's for some lunch and hot chocolate."

"What? We're- Yeah," John said, turning to stride after Sherlock. "Hot chocolate sounds good."

"Strangely enough, it does, doesn't it?"

Sherlock stopped at the sanitizer station, dispensing the alcohol-based liquid into his palm.

John raised his eyebrows. "What are you doing? You never sanitize."

"Molly never has the flu, either," Sherlock said, backing into the door to open it. He vanished into the hallway.

John blinked and, after thinking about that statement, dispensed sanitizer onto his hands before following Sherlock out the door.

* * *

**I thought I posted this awhile ago. I guess I didn't. I wrote it and forgot about it. So, not too memorable. Still think it has a bit of charm. Molly's personality is SO difficult to pin down, which is dumb, because she reminds me of myself. Which makes it sad that I have trouble writing her character. But, whatever.**

**I do not own _Sherlock_.**

**Thank you!**


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